‘So he could have left earlier, killed the girl and then ‘discovered’ the body?’ Boxer persisted.
‘Not really. Apart from the question of a motive, his 999 call saying he’d just found the body was logged at 15.02. We were out there within fifteen minutes and Dr McAndrew was with us. She thought Marina had been dead at least an hour – probably closer to two, which ties in with her being killed as soon as she went into the house.’
‘It’s a bit odd though, isn’t it, the way he behaved? Beyond the call of duty?’ Paula queried. ‘He’s only their GP, after all, and there he was being chauffeur and nanny.’
‘I get the impression he’s a lot more than just the GP,’ Scott said. ‘He seemed pretty shaken up by Marina’s death. He’s known her since she was small and he says he’s seen the family through some difficult times. I know you say the Carsons don’t seem to have any friends, Andy, but I think he’s probably the nearest thing to a friend they’ve got.’
‘It’s odd they didn’t mention him when we asked about friends, in that case.’
‘I think,’ Sarah Shepherd said, ‘Glenys is one of those people who takes it for granted that people do things for her. They think they’re doing it out of friendship, but she just takes it as her due.’
‘Go Sarah with the psychology!’ Steve Boxer said. ‘You in training to be what’s-her-name on Waking the Dead?’
‘Piss off, Steve,’ Paula said.
‘OK,’ Scott intervened. ‘We’ve mostly closed off lines, but let’s look at what we have got. The river. Let’s get going on finding out about that boat. Talk to people with houses on the other side of the river – see what they’ve seen. Glenys got onto the property on Sunday without being seen by the uniforms on duty. It seems she came up by boat, and the killer or killers could have done too. The other thing is the caller from the phone box. If we can get a lead on her, we’re home. DCs Sweet and Temple have been outside the post office in Lower Shepton since eight- thirty this morning – a week since the call was made. I’m hoping they may be able to jog some memories.’
He stopped and looked round at them all. ‘I think that call is key in other ways, too. It must have struck you all how old-fashioned it is, how amateur. What villain can’t get hold of an unregistered mobile? So, was it all amateur? A bungled burglary of a house with nothing valuable in it and a panicky killing of a witness? All cock-up? Yes, maybe, except, they did their homework, knew all about the house, left no DNA. So that’s a puzzle, and I’ll be glad to hear any theories you may have.’
Silence. Then Paula said, ‘Maybe it’s someone who watches old movies – that sort of thing.’
‘It’s a thought. If we run out of other leads, we’ll take a look at people’s DVD collections. The other point is – and it’s bothered me from the start – why did they choose a day when Renée Deakin usually came to clean. She’s not there on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Why go to all the trouble of the phone call when they could have done it the next day? Or early in the morning before she got there?’
‘Perhaps they did try to do it on the Tuesday,’ Paula said. ‘That was when Glenys had her fall. Maybe they did booby-trap the stairs but it wasn’t enough, so they went back for another go and made sure that time.’
‘And they couldn’t do it earlier in the morning,’ Sarah Shepherd said, ‘not if they wanted to push her down the stairs. By all accounts, she doesn’t get up till about twelve, so they’d have had to kill her in her bed.’
‘OK. And why not leave it till Thursday?’ There was a silence and Scott answered his own question. ‘Well, if we’re talking about an obsessive fan, maybe the obsession had got too strong and he or she couldn’t wait. On the other hand, if someone actually had a motive for getting rid of Glenys, then perhaps they couldn’t afford to wait. It had become urgent to rid of her. Why? What was she going to do that they had to prevent?’
‘Make a will?’ Andy Finnegan suggested. ‘Maybe she was going to leave everything to someone other than old Hector.’
‘Except he’s got a cast iron alibi,’ Steve Boxer objected.
‘I need to talk to her again,’ Scott said. ‘In the meantime, keep going on the slog. My instinct tells me we’re not going to get a sudden breakthrough in this case. It’s going to be inch by inch all the way.’
At lunch time, Scott picked up a sandwich from the canteen and headed out for a walk along the river. If he was honest with himself, he knew he was avoiding Paula. Things had changed between them since Sunday night. Nothing had happened: they’d had a couple of drinks and chatted, that was all, but Paula’s manner to him had changed. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice, he hoped, but he could feel that she seemed to be expecting something from him. He wished he hadn’t rung her; it was never a good idea to socialise outside work, not when you were in charge. He regretted being so snappy with Gina too, really. Of course she had no business in the case, but she did make some good points. There had been no need to be so paranoid about her involvement.
His mobile rang.
‘David?’
‘Gina,’ he said. ‘Would you believe me if I said I was just thinking about you?’
‘Were you really?’ She sounded genuinely pleased. ‘Well I’ve got a proposition for you. How would you fancy a trip into Oxfordshire at the weekend, to research Amy Robsart and Cumnor Place?’
‘What are you talking about, Gina?’
‘You think there’s a connection between Marina’s death and Amy Robsart’s don’t you? You wouldn’t have been at Amy on Saturday otherwise.’
‘Gina, I wasn’t at the show, I was there to interview a witness.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded uncharacteristically dashed, but she rallied rapidly. ‘Still there is the possibility of a copycat killing, isn’t there? And anyway, it’s going to be lovely weather and there won’t be many more golden autumn days, so why don’t we just think of it as an outing and if we find out anything interesting, that’s a bonus?’
‘Gina, I’m really not sure what you have in mind. You know you can’t get involved in this case, don’t you? It was different last time when it was one of your students who was killed, but –’
‘It’s all right. I understand. I promise not to mention the case – not a word. If we talk of murder at all, it will be about Amy Robsart’s murder. If I utter a syllable about Marina you can turn me out of the car and leave me to hitch home.’
‘All right.’
‘You’ll come?’
He was startled by her delight. ‘Yes,’ he said, and then, because that sounded pretty ungracious, he added, ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’
15
SATURDAY 2nd OCTOBER
For I myself am best
When least in company
For the past few weeks I have had an invitation lying on the hall table. It goes as follows:
Verity and Simon Maxwell
At Home
On Saturday 2nd October
From 6.00 p.m.
At 11 The Precincts, Marlbury
RSVP to [email protected]
Verity’s birthday but no prezzies please!
I e-mailed some time ago, saying I would be delighted to come, though in truth delight is far from what I feel at the prospect, especially since Verity replied, reciprocating the delight and adding, “I should tell you, we have invited Andrew and Lavender.”
I realise I haven’t told you about Lavender. She is Andrew’s new wife. She is barely older than Ellie (twenty-seven) and comes from a slightly county family – not titled but terribly well-established. She is rich, pretty, well-connected and appears to hold no opinions on anything. She is the woman Andrew should have married when he made the mistake of marrying me – except, of course, that she was only a year old at the time. She is always referred to by the girls and me as “The Fragrant Lavender”. Her name isn’t her fault, of course – her sisters are called Saffron and Bryony – but we like our little joke.
A few weeks ago, The Fragrant Lavender gave bir
th to Arthur. Arthur Edwin Gray! He sounds as though he should be editing dictionaries rather than lying on his back blowing milk bubbles. I thought the arrival of the baby, particularly when it turned out to be a boy, would put paid to Andrew’s newfound interest in Annie, but it seems to have made him even more eager to be out of the house. That shouldn’t surprise me (he was never much interested in our babies) but I suppose I imagined that if he was doing parenthood all over again, he would want to do it differently and be one of those doting older fathers. Well, obviously not. Perhaps Arthur is just a little present to keep Lavender amused.
Actually, I feel a bit guilty about Lavender. Knowing him to be a hopeless husband, should I really have let him loose to drive someone else round the bend? I’d like to think I’d broken him in a bit but really all I did was to give him plenty of practice at being impossible. Still, I suppose he came with a health warning of sorts – one marriage down the pan – but no doubt she thought I was the impossible one. Hard to believe, that.
I dither a bit about what to wear. I can’t win in any sort of competition with T F L, so I’d like to go for soignée older woman, if only my wardrobe were up to it. In the end, I opt for a black skirt and top, both in fairly good nick, and a long black and white silk scarf I bought in Venice several years ago. I find some tights with ladders only at the top and a pair of rather smart but hideously uncomfortable black patent shoes and I’m quite pleased with the effect, though the scarf does slip about a bit and will probably end up in other people’s canapés.
It’s no surprise that Andrew will be there: Simon and Verity are his friends. Simon is a house master at Marlbury Abbey School and Verity occupies herself in managing her own brood and mothering Simon’s boys. Everyone there will be from Andrew’s world and I’m not sure why I’m going, except that it was kind of Verity to ask me and I won’t have her thinking I can’t face Andrew and Lavender.
Conversation and Pimms are flowing freely when I arrive at their elegant Georgian house in the abbey precincts. ‘We’re pretending it’s still summer,’ Verity chirps merrily as she hands me my Pimms, and I see that the French windows are open and some intrepid guests are out on the lawn. I feel I am altogether too autumnal in my black. She introduces me to a passing woman who, it turns out, runs pony clubs for the disabled, which is a worthy calling but doesn’t give me many points of contact. I’m drinking my Pimms too fast and sympathising, on automatic pilot, over the prohibitive expense of keeping horses these days, when I’m conscious that several people seem to be looking at me. I check that my scarf hasn’t run amok and then I glance round. They have arrived: Arthur, Lavender and Andrew, the holy family, and the crowd seems to part like the red sea to allow me access to them (yes, I know I’m mixing my testaments).
Noticing as I go that Lavender is looking impossibly slim and impeccable in a pale blue cashmere sweater and grey silk trousers, I perform my turn: I sweep towards them, all delight; I mwah mwah Lavender and Andrew; I exclaim at the beauty of Arthur. Then, as more seems to be expected, I tell Lavender how good it is of her to do without Andrew for the whole day tomorrow, when he’s taking Annie up to Oxford. She looks puzzled. Is it possible he hasn’t told her? This is how it’s going to be, Sunshine, I think. Start getting used to it. And I look for a means of escape.
I turn to swap my empty glass for a full one from a passing tray and across the room a man catches my desperate eye, a man who is only vaguely familiar but is hastening across, smiling broadly. ‘Ginny Sidwell,’ he calls as he gets closer.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to Lavender. ‘A man from a past even before Andrew.’
‘I haven’t been called Ginny for about twenty-five years,’ I say to my rescuer. ‘You’re coming back to me, though. Marcus? Marcus Bright?’
‘The same. And still Marcus. You and I spent May Morning in a punt together. What do you call yourself now?’
‘Gina.’
‘And still Sidwell?’ he asks, glancing at my naked ring finger.
‘I’m Gray these days,’ I tell him, ‘from a passing liaison with that man over there, the one with the baby.’
He looks across at the holy trio. ‘Don’t I recognise him?’ he asks.
‘Possibly. He was at Oriel – where our daughter starts tomorrow.’
Why do I say this? I pride myself on not boasting about my children. What’s the matter with me? I blame the strength of the Pimms.
He smiles delightedly. ‘Splendid,’ he says. ‘But why did you stop being Ginny?’
‘Ginny sounds like a girl on a Thelwell pony,’ I say, a little too loudly because it attracts the attention of the pony club woman, who bears down on us expectantly.
‘Marcus,’ I say, ‘this is Frances –‘
‘Yes, yes,’ he cries, shaking her hand vigorously. ‘I know Mrs Felversham very well. Charles is doing splendidly this term,’ he tells her confidentially. ‘Worth his weight in gold on the rugby field.’
She beams and departs, saying she promised Verity she would go and have a look at her pelargoniums.
‘So you’re a teacher,’ I say. ‘Marlbury Abbey, presumably?’
‘Head of sixth form. This is my second year. Can’t imagine why we haven’t bumped into one another before.’
‘I paddle in these waters only very occasionally. It’s not really my scene.’
‘And what do you do with yourself?’ he asks, as one might ask, And do you prefer crochet or macramé?
‘I’m head of English language at Marlbury University College.’
‘English as a foreign language?’
‘No.’ I start sounding tetchy, I know. ‘EAP – English for academic purposes. We run degree courses for overseas students and prepare them for –’
He breaks in. ‘But you’ve got qualifications in TEFL and all that?’
‘I’ve got an MA in applied linguistics. What is this, Marcus? A job interview?’
‘It might just be. You could be the answer to my prayers.’
‘In my experience, that’s usually a preliminary to being asked to do something for nothing.’
‘Oh don’t be cruel, Ginny. You never were. You were always a model of kindness and tact.’
‘I was too scared to be anything else. I’m older and nastier now.’
‘Nonsense. You don’t look a day older.’
‘What is it you want, Marcus?’
‘Walk with me into the garden and I’ll tell you.’
Outside, among what may possibly be pelargoniums, he launches into his tale. ‘We have a link-up with Nepal,’ he says. ‘You may have heard about it – we get in The Herald quite a lot. A number of our boys – and the girls who join us in the sixth form – go out on their gap year to do VSO-type work. Some of them take part in development projects, but most of them help by teaching English. They do a four-week course in teaching English as a Foreign Language but the feedback we had from last year was that they felt unprepared, and they struggled quite a bit at the beginning. I’ve been feeling that it would be much better if they could have a year-round course, as part of General Studies.’
‘And I fit into this how?’
‘You’d be the perfect person to teach the course.’
‘But, as I think I mentioned, I have a job. A demanding job. I’m responsible for half a dozen staff and over three hundred students.’
‘This would only be an hour a week.’
‘Plus preparation and marking. And exams. This will be an examined course, presumably?’
‘Those are details that can be ironed out later.’
‘I’m sure they can, only not with me. I believe schools like Marlbury Abbey should be stripped of their charitable status and squeezed out of existence, Marcus. I’m not teaching for you.’
‘Your principal writes in The Herald this week that he wants to see Marlbury College using its expertise to become more engaged in helping the community. I’m sure this is just the kind of thing he has in mind.’
Now draining my third Pimms, I laug
h at him.
‘Marlbury Abbey isn’t “the community”! It’s a little island of privilege devoted to nothing but its own self-perpetuation. Nothing would induce me.’
My dignified departure is marred only by my shuffling gait in my crippling shoes and the need to disengage the end of my scarf, which has found its way among the bits of cucumber and mint in the bottom of my Pimms glass.
16
SUNDAY 3rd OCTOBER
CUMNOR
He wondered if the jacket was a mistake. Bought in a hurry the day before, it had cost a lot more than he had meant to spend, and now he wondered if it was right. Did it look too obviously new? He could easily not wear it. After all, he hadn’t bought it specifically for today, had he? In the end, he went with it; the golden autumn morning invited it.
Gina emerged from the house in a greenish-blue jacket which matched her eyes. She was carrying a picnic basket. ‘My contribution,’ she said. She was quiet in the car, which disconcerted him. In his mind, she was always talking, in full flow, hands waving – either that, or bending his ear down the phone.
‘Does not talking about the Carson case mean you’re not going to talk at all?’ he asked after a while.
She looked startled. ‘What? No. Sorry. It’s just – Annie’s going off to Oxford today and I’m – I don’t know – not quite sure what I’m feeling.’
‘Didn’t you want to go with her?’
‘Andrew’s taking her.’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure that he did.
‘Anyway, this is lovely,’ she said. ‘And now I’m going to tell you everything I know about Amy Robsart/Dudley and her mysterious death. I’ve been genning up on it.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Stop me if I’m telling you things you know already. Amy Robsart was the only child of a Norfolk baronet and she was married to Lord Robert Dudley when they were both eighteen. A love match, apparently. William Cecil called it “carnal”. It can’t have been a very good match for the Duke of Northumberland’s son, but perhaps the Robsarts were rich. Anyway, their early married life was difficult because Robert Dudley was involved in the plot to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne – his brother was married to her – and he was stripped of all his property, sent to the Tower and sentenced to death. He was reprieved, though, and eventually got his property back because he did good service in the war in the Netherlands. Then Elizabeth I came to the throne and things got really good for him because they’d known each other since childhood and she fancied him. He was made master of the horse, I think, and had the ear of the queen. However, it can’t have been much fun for Amy, any of it, because he was never at home. First he was in prison, then at the wars, then at court. They were married for ten years and had no children, which says something, I think.’
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